One Year Reflection on This Thing Called Grief

I have hesitated sharing this letter for a while now. I've written many versions of it, in my head, on paper, on my phone. I contemplated whether it is even ethical to write about another person's life and loss. To talk about you to people who had no idea you existed before. What if I say something you wouldn't approve of?

But then, there is this thing inside me that convinces me to write. To give voice to all the confusion, sadness, and anger that comes with grief. So maybe I'll bite the bullet and share it anyway, for me, for the remembrance of our friendship, and for others who may be experiencing grief too.

I still remember, vividly, how the news came last May. I woke up to texts from our school friends. Typical me, I went into denial for a couple of hours. Then, coming home from work, I collapsed on the floor and started crying. No, wailing. My chest felt impossibly tight; I still don't know how I got through it. The days that followed were absolute hell. I cried, over and over again. I'm someone who can usually focus at work, but during those days, my only focus was on not breaking down in the middle of a workday. It was a torment.

About a week after, I noticed you were being talked about less online. The weather was getting warm enough to run outside, and that became my saving grace. I would put music on, so loudly, and run. It was a relief to have a little time away from the self-blaming thoughts. The ones that told me I was not a good friend. That I was a horrible person for having promised to come back home to see you, only to never follow through until it was all too late. That I should have checked in more, called more. That I had been so ignorant of how temporary life is. And that I didn't deserve to feel sorry for myself, or to be unmotivated, because at least I am still here.

I still talked to you, at a frequency far higher than my conversations with God. I told you about my silly heartbreak. About how I was thinking of changing jobs. About actually changing jobs, and so on. I'm not sure why I did that, especially since we hadn't been talking much before all of this. I think I wanted to keep you alive in my head, to make death feel less final. Keeping busy with work helped too. Don't get me wrong, I do love what I spend most of my days doing. The fact that it makes me think of you less is something I am quietly grateful for, even if I wouldn't say it out loud.

Then, a couple of days ago, with May less than a week away, the emptiness and pain came back in full force for the first time in a year. I could feel that lump in my throat and the tightness in my chest, as if I were reliving those early days all over again. And I hate it. I thought they say it gets better. It certainly doesn't feel like it. And maybe that is one more reason I hesitated to write this, because in everything else I write and share, I try to be inspiring and hopeful and positive. I can't do that here, because I haven't figured it out yet. How to heal. How to stop myself from rereading our old messages and spiraling into blame. What if there is no answer? If so, how many more years will it take before I feel okay again? Please, do tell.

What I know for certain is that I still miss you very much. I miss my friend, and I miss the comfort of believing that I could return home after a decade and still find our old lives waiting. I hope you are doing beautifully up there. I wish you were still here.

Love,

Aislin